Dreams and Anguish
by Min Daae
Summary: Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together. -Eugene Ionesco. Written for the h/c ficathon on ohsam on LJ. Angst and a baby on fire.


Sam slept.

Considering everything, that in itself was kind of a miracle. One and a half years later of total sleeplessness, on top of five more years that Dean knew about of near constant sleep deprivation – yeah, the fact that Sam had now been asleep for going on fourteen hours after his soul was replanted was pretty impressive.

Also, much as Dean didn't want to admit it, a little bit of a relief. No emotional breakdown, no total collapse or agonized and guilt-ridden Sam that Dean didn't really _want_ to deal with right now; just sleep. He could deal with that. Gave him the chance to wind down a little and think about something other than making sure Sam didn't do anything morally reprehensible for the first time in roughly six months.

Only now he'd finally ventured upstairs to check on Sam and make sure he was really sleeping and not just avoiding him and Bobby, which was the kind of thing Sam would do. He was sleeping all right, but on the other hand…Sam was sleeping quietly, but he wasn't sleeping _quietly. _

He just wasn't screaming or thrashing or any of the things that should have cued Dean into the idea that maybe sleep was not such a good place for Sam's head to be right now.

Dean watched the lines etch in his little brother's forehead and listened to the small, agonized sounds slipping out of Sam's throat despite what sounded like his best effort to smother it, even in sleep. His muscles were tense and rigid and the way his breathing quickened was characteristic in a way Dean knew all too well of anticipated pain.

Dean forgot about not wanting to hold Sam together, not having the energy to do so, and reached out and gripped his shoulder, shook it gently. "Hey, Sam," he said, gently as he could manage. "It's not real. Wake up."

Sam didn't react, just made another small, shuddery sound. Dean stiffened.

He knew about nightmares. They both did, a little too well. They weren't the kind of thing you held onto. They were the kind of thing that you popped out of as soon as something gave you the chance, because as awful as they were they were just dreams and couldn't hold onto you. Dean shook Sam a little harder. "Hey. Come on. It's just a nightmare."

Still nothing. Sam turned, flopped to his side and curled up away from Dean as though unaware of the hand on his shoulder. Of all the times for Sam to refuse to respond-

"Hey, _Sam,_" he said, a little sharper. "Come on. Open your eyes, look at me-"

He wasn't waking up. Dean felt a little thrill of panic – _been a while, hasn't it, _part of him noted dryly – and turned to go find Bobby even if the older hunter had been judiciously leaving Dean alone when Sam fell silent. He turned back and found his brother blinking at him, evidently awake.

He breathed out, relieved. It'd just taken a little longer than usual, that was all. "Hey," he said, with relief. "You okay?"

Sam closed his eyes and nodded, once. "Yeah," he said, "Yeah, fine."

Not fine, no; Dean could see that plain as anything. But they could get there. A few nightmares were nothing, really.

He could totally handle this.

~.~

Maybe not.

They'd left Bobby's because Sam had gotten anxious and Dean had wanted to be doing something, but Dean was beginning to wish they'd stayed. Sam slept, a lot. He didn't seem capable of not doing it. But every time it was the same thing. He'd sleep for about a half an hour without moving, and then start that quiet chorus of unhappy noises and tensed muscles and eyes moving too rapidly under closed eyelids.

And he didn't wake up. Anywhere from twelve to fourteen hours of that, never stopping, and he wouldn't respond to shaking or yelling or any attempt Dean made to snap him out of it, too exhausted, probably, to even hear Dean trying to get to him. And Dean could see it taking a toll, too; he slept all the time but Sam still looked exhausted. And all he would say when Dean tried to ask him how he was or (god forbid) what he was dreaming about was the same thing.

"It's fine, Dean." "Not right now, Dean." "It doesn't matter, Dean." Or one day, when Dean had tried a new tactic and claimed that it was getting on his nerves, "You can always sleep in another room."

Dean had kind of wanted to punch Sam for even suggesting that one.

_Fine. _Liar. Like Dean couldn't see the growingly wild look in his eyes or the way he seemed more and more exhausted the more he slept, and the more exhausted he was the more he slept and the more exhausted he got and-

Enough was enough. Drastic times called for drastic measures.

If he couldn't get to Sam from the outside, maybe he could haul Sam out of his nightmares from the inside.

Dean waited until Sam was sacked out for his half an hour of dreamless sleep and called Bobby. "Hey," he said, casually. "Do you have any dreamroot?"

Dean could practically hear the gears ticking and the disapproval in Bobby's voice. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I'm sure it's not a bad idea," Dean said, deliberately lightly, because no, he wasn't sure. Wasn't sure that Sam's head wasn't going to be a dark and scary place that he didn't want to know about. On the other hand, even if it was, the more need for a big brother to help fix it up.

Bobby sighed, and muttered something that probably summarized as 'idjits.' Dean just waited. Finally, Bobby said, "Yeah, I've got some. Swing back by here. You going to tell him what you're doing?"

Dean glanced over at Sam just as his body twitched and tensed and he made a small, pleading noise. He grimaced, and decided that not lying or being evasive did not count when it came to little brother safety and security, and never had. "No. He probably wouldn't like it. So don't you say anything either."

Bobby muttered something again, but said, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll expect you in a couple days."

Dean turned around after closing his cell to watch Sam sleep. He woke up in the morning without remembering when he'd fallen asleep and felt a little twist of guilt when he realized that he'd slept just fine through his little brother's hours of nightmares.

Yes, it was definitely time to make sure that something was done about this mess.

~.~

Sam rubbed his eyes, already looking tired again. He'd only woken up a couple hours ago, and Dean could see he was already fighting to stay awake. "Why are we going to Bobby's again?"

"He said he had a case he wanted us to look at." Sam sighed, sounding almost like his old self in exasperation.

"We were in the middle of a case."

"Don't you think we kind of owe Bobby? He's pulled our asses out of the frying pan more times than I can count and that's not even taking into account all the shit he's taken for us…"

It was probably a sign of how screwed up they were that Dean wanted to smile for the way Sam flinched guiltily, but it was just one more reminder that there was a soul there now. "So I thought we could take the time. It's not that far. Do you really mind that much?"

"No," said Sam, sounding resigned. "No, I was just asking."

Dean felt only briefly guilty for lying.

The drive went quickly, relatively speaking, and Sam stayed mostly awake for most of it. Dean felt a little brush of relief as they pulled up to the familiar house and Sam was showing all the signs of being on the verge of another collapse into sleep. Right on time. "Wow, Sam," he said. "Living with you is like living in the napping house, I swear."

Sam blinked, looking puzzled. "What?" His eyes were fuzzy and bleary, and Dean hunted down a smile and opened the car door.

"Never mind. Looks like you're going to sleep again. I'll tell Bobby he'll have to wait. You go lie down before you fall down."

Sam was looking at him straight, now, and Dean tried to look as innocent as he could, suddenly wondering if Sam suspected something. But he just shook his head, probably too groggy to focus. "If I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to get rid of me," Sam said, and Dean hated that it was a little too weak to be a joke and Sam was still pretending it was.

"I'll be right there," Dean said, and didn't even bother trying to make his response a joke. "Not like I have anything else to do." Sam's mouth twitched like he was going to say something else, but he just turned and trudged toward the house.

All in all, Sam managed a greeting and a glass of water, a few sentences of conversation before stubborn perversity gave way to exhaustion and he trudged upstairs. Dean and Bobby stayed where they were and watched him sway a little at the top of the stairs before vanishing around the corner.

Dean breathed out, relieved.

"You're a moron," Bobby said. "Not that I didn't already know that. What's this going to fix, anyway?"

Dean cleared his throat. "It might give me a way to wake him up, for one thing. And maybe if I know what he's dreaming about – I dunno, okay? But I gotta do something."

Bobby grimaced, but he walked over to the stove and set the kettle on to boil. "Don't know why I put up with you," he muttered. Dean forced a smile.

"Yeah, me either."

He watched Bobby as the tea boiled, noted how the older hunter moved with intentional exasperation and caught himself humming Metallica. Nervous? What did he have to be nervous about? Oh yeah, he was planning to go crawling into his little brother's probably crazy messed up hell-haunted freaky brain. He wasn't supposed to be looking forward to it. But a big brother had to do what a big brother had to do, and he'd been skimping for long enough.

"Go on upstairs," said Bobby, gruffly. "I'll bring the stuff up. You'll need some-"

"Essence of Sam. Yeah, I know." Dean trudged upstairs and slipped quietly into the room they'd been sleeping in since "Uncle Bobby" first became a part of their life, even knowing that his quiet or lack thereof wouldn't matter. Sam wasn't quite twitching yet, and Dean was a little relieved. Maybe they could ease into things and he wouldn't get dropped straight into the worst of it. Sam didn't even wake up when Dean sat down on the bed next to his hip and pulled out a couple long hairs, didn't even twitch. Out like a freaking light.

Poor kid. Dean wondered what it would take for both of them to get a break, at the same time, for more than five minutes. He couldn't even say for sure that being _dead _would help at this point.

He heard Bobby thumping loudly up the stairs and moved off the bed to the other twin, knowing that was why Bobby was making so much noise. The door swung open and Dean held up the hairs and waggled his eyebrows. Bobby rolled his eyes and shoved the steaming mug at him.

"Take it. Idjit."

He'd forgotten how nasty that shit smelled. And probably tasted worse than he remembered, too. Dean dropped the hair in and looked at Bobby, who was staring at him with his usual grumpy expression on – and perhaps a bit of additional trepidation – and pointed at the door.

"All right," he said. "Enough hovering. I don't think you can do much in a minute here. It'll be fine. Just a nap, right?"

"Be careful, Dean," said Bobby. "Don't get lost in there." Dean remembered Bobby's nightmare, and his own last experience with dreamroot. He swished the glass in a circle.

"I won't," he said. "How bad can it be? Bottoms up." He tossed the glass back, plugging his nose so he didn't gag, and let himself fall back. He blinked.

Bobby was gone. The door was closed. The bed next to him was empty.

Okay.

Dean rolled over and pushed himself to his feet, taking a couple steps away. He looked out the window, but it was dark and he couldn't see anything. For a moment he wondered if this was really Sam's dream at all or if he'd somehow ended up somewhere else.

He grimaced, reached out and opened the door to step out into the hallway of Bobby's house. And stopped. Froze. He couldn't make sense of what he was seeing.

He knew this room. Remembered coming into it to say goodnight to his tiny brother Sammy. It was Sam's nursery in the house in Lawrence, and even before he looked up he knew what he was going to find.

Only his mother wasn't on the ceiling. Just the fire, and it was only spreading one way, toward the window and Sam's crib. _Shit, Sammy, _he thought, looking at the baby across the room – and _god _how did Sam replicate this place so _perfectly? _– and took a step forward, intending to end this right now and snatch baby Sam out of his crib and leave. This wasn't something new, this was old, _really _old, what did it matter now?

And then he couldn't move anymore. His feet were stuck and he couldn't lift either of them, frozen in place just a few feet from the crib and oh _no- _

Dean blinked again, and there _he _was. He didn't look four, though, maybe six or seven. And he was standing just a couple feet from where Dean was stuck in place and just staring straight ahead. The fire had caught on the wall and was licking downward. The glass creaked and groaned.

Was this Sam's nightmare at all or was this _his? _

Well, all right. So he couldn't interfere, at least there was someone who could. "Hey," he said, to himself. "Hey, what are you doing? Get a move on."

Other Dean didn't move. Didn't even seem to hear anything, just staring. Dean gritted his teeth and wished he could reach. "Hey, _you. _Me. Whatever. I'm kind of stuck, that means this is kind of on you-"

Nothing. Baby Sam started to cry and Dean squirmed, tried to move forward, and raised his voice. "Hey! Come on, _move! _Get Sam and go outside!"

"He won't."

Dean's blood went cold, because he knew that voice. He found he could turn and looked slowly at Sam, eight years old and already so serious, and Sam was looking past Dean at the burning wall. Dean cleared his throat. "…why not?"

Sam shrugged. "He shouldn't. He's not supposed to. He never does. There's a million different answers."

For just a second, Dean thought he was going to choke. Then he managed to find his voice and said, "You're just going to – that's not how it is. That's _not-_"

"I've thought this through," said little Sam, calmly, as the fire caught on the hanging toys over his own crib. Baby Sam was sobbing now. The sound grated on Dean's nerves and he tried again to move, but he couldn't go forward even an inch. "It just makes sense. I mean, I was always going to hell, always going to burn anyway. At first I thought maybe never being born was better, but…"

Dean cut Sam off. He just couldn't deal with – not from this mouth. Not from pint-size Sam who barely even knew what the real world was like, wasn't supposed to have any idea about hell or be thinking about not being born. That wasn't _right. _"No," he said. "No, you're wrong."

Sam gave him a look that was so purely exasperated Sam that Dean could have felt better if it weren't for the fact that Sam just didn't want him interrupting the explanation of why little Dean wasn't supposed to do anything about the fact that his baby brother in all senses was about to _burn up. _"But that was never going to happen," Sam continued, calmly. "Azazel wouldn't…yeah. Anyway. So I figured this was the next best thing, to burn now and none of the rest would ever happen. Azazel wouldn't have any reason to go after you and Dad. No deals, no apocalypse – and it just ends up the same for me, too, right? Hell isn't that bad if it means avoiding all the rest." Sam shrugged, then turned to stare indifferently as the plastic toy airplane melted and baby Sammy started screaming. Dean lurched involuntarily forward and met a wall, turned and stared in disbelief at his younger self, just standing there and watching with cold, compassionless eyes. He choked.

"Sammy-"

Sam turned his head and glanced at Dean, his expression one of total calm and resignation that just made Dean sick to see on that tiny, young and too old face. "I've thought it through," he said again. "I thought about staying dead at Cold Oak, but Dad was gone and I didn't want you to be on your own. This just seemed like the best option." Baby Sammy's screams climbed to wails, flame catching on the bedding, and copy-Dean didn't even react. Dean swallowed hard past the growing lump in his throat.

"You can't just pretend this is _okay-_"

"But it _is,_" insisted tiny-Sam, staring up at him. "There's no loss. I was always going to hell and at least this way everybody else lives. You. Dad. Jess. Who knows how many other people? If I could go back and fix things, this is where I'd start. You never had to bring me out. You should've run when you had the chance.

Dean felt his expression spasm. "God. This is what you've been –"

Trust Sam to understand the unspoken question. Trust Sam to make a soft sound, not quite a snort, like that was funny. "No," he said. "This is one of the good ones." He looked up, and his expression was open, his eyes wide and almost hopeful. "This is how I make everything better. That's a good thing, right?"

Dean opened his mouth to snap that that wasn't funny when he realized that Sam was dead. Freaking. Serious. "You can't keep doing this," Dean started to say, and then gagged on the smell of burning flesh as baby Sam's desperate screams reached new heights, and Sam turned and looked at him with tired, hollow eyes far too old for his age.

The dream winked out.

~.~

Sam wasn't awake when Dean sat bolt upright. He was still curled up and breathing fast and unevenly like he was trying not to cry. Dean rolled over and pressed his face against the pillow, his heart heavy.

_Well, _said a caustic voice in his head. _Now you know. Isn't that what you wanted? _

Yeah, and now he had an all new up close and personal view of his brother's guilt issues and minimal self worth, like that was new. Fantastic. And he'd never had any idea how to fix it.

Sam's hand twisted in the blanket as he made a small, hurting noise. Dean didn't even bother to try to wake him. _This is one of the good ones, _he remembered, suddenly, and was suddenly almost glad that he hadn't stuck around, because as far as he was concerned there was no universe anywhere where Sam thought Dean should have left a six month old _baby _to burn alive could possibly _ever _be a good thing.

He laid back and put his hands over his face and tried not to ache too much even as his stomach twisted into knots.

_At least, _a hateful part of his brain supplied, _he doesn't seem to be aiming to start ceasing to exist now. It could be worse. _

Oh, sure. It could be worse. Sam could be trying to kill himself as opposed to just wishing that he'd never been born in the first place, or if he _had _to be born then he shouldn't have been saved.

And how was he supposed to fix that?

It seemed like once he would have known exactly what to do, exactly what he was supposed to say to fix things – everything. He didn't even have a little bit of an idea now.

~.~

Dean tried to start simple. As Sam's eyes blinked open, his face haggard and looking more exhausted than when he'd gone to sleep, Dean made sure he was there to be the first person Sam saw waking up.

"Hey Sam," he said, "Sleep well?"

Sam rubbed his eye, looking like he wanted to grimace. "Yeah," he said blurrily. "Yeah, I guess."

"No freaky dreams? Cause you kind of sounded…"

Sam was shaking his head and smiling a tired smile that Dean could have too easily mistaken for genuine. "Geez, Dean. Were you just sitting there watching me sleep?"

Dean frowned and narrowed his eyes. "Don't change the subject."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "It was fine, Dean. I don't remember anything, anyway. Didn't you tell me not to – poke at things?"

That hadn't occurred to Dean, that maybe Sam didn't remember his dreams. Or else he was lying. Dean squinted, trying to guess. "I'm just…are you sure?"

"Yeah." Sam looked directly at him, looking almost hurt, and it was true that as far as Dean knew Sam had been nothing but honest since getting his soul back. "I'm sure. What's this job Bobby wants help on?"

Shit, Dean thought, and glanced hastily away. "Can a guy get some dinner first? You too," he added, quickly, because Sam was eating way too little for his liking. Sam only went off his feed when he was upset, and Dean didn't like what that said even if Sam was acting fine and claimed not to remember what was going on in his own dreams.

Sam's shoulders bunched. "I'm not hungry," he protested. Dean sighed.

"You haven't had anything since a couple bites of toast this morning, I know for a fact. Come on. I'll make you some soup?"

He hated that wheedling tone, hated using it, but it seemed to do the trick. Sam sighed, shrugged, and murmured, "Okay."

Dean nudged him deliberately with his shoulder, still trying to communicate in their language that Sam was worth it and a L'Oreal commercial, no matter what his subconscious was telling him. "Bitch," he said, trying to make it sound fond, rather than worried.

Sam didn't answer him, just acted like he hadn't even heard.

But he did eat the soup.

For just about ever, Dean's first question when Sam was upset had been _what did I do? _He kept wanting to ask now, but it wouldn't have helped. It probably, Dean thought with a grimace, would have just given Sam something else to guilt about.

He set down his fork, watching Sam swallow his soup spoonful by spoonful, and said, "Hey, Sam."

Sam glanced up, looking distracted. "Mmhm?"

Dean put his hands on the table and tried to look serious. Fuck chick flick, he was. "You're not a burden," he said, carefully. Sam blinked, and then smiled a little. Dean knew Sam's facial expressions better than his own.

That smile was his 'that's very sweet of you to say, Dean, but you're totally wrong, and I'm not going to say anything because I don't feel like arguing' smile.

"Yeah," said Sam, "I know." _I know you think so, _Dean translated, and wished Sam didn't have to make everything so _hard. _

"No," said Dean, more insistently. "Really. I'm your brother. That's not some kind of duty."

"Isn't it?" said Sam, and then clearly thought better of it and shook his head. "No, never mind. That was – sorry."

Dean wanted to sigh. Could you apologize for thinking that you should have died in your crib instead? he wanted to say, but he didn't think Sam was really listening, and he didn't know how to make him listen, not anymore. "I just thought you should know that I don't think like that," he said, lamely.

Sam just looked at him for a second, even that stupid almost patronizing smile vanishing. "Yeah," he said, finally, his voice like lead. "Thanks."

They finished eating in silence.

~.~

Dean got the distinct impression that Bobby was only barely resisting an 'I told you so.' At least he came up with some obscure question that he sent Sam after, so Dean didn't have to worry about getting caught out in a lie. Yet.

"Well?" The older hunter said roughly, "I guess it didn't work like you thought it would."

Dean grimaced. "Does it ever?"

"Every so often I hope for your sake it will." Bobby glanced up toward the stairs and said, very carefully, "Maybe you should just leave it alone."

"Like hell I will," Dean snapped. "I just wish…"

"Just wish what?" interrupted a voice, and Dean nearly swore, turning toward Sam, who looked – worried. "I found what you were looking for, Bobby," he added, and then yawned.

Dean knew he paused too long before saying "that you didn't sleep all the time, moron."

Sam made a face. "Yeah, I wish that too. So you guys aren't – planning something?" Sam tried to make that a joke, and failed. At least, Dean found himself thinking treacherously, RoboSam had had a sense of humor. If one that was too often at his expense.

Yeah, well. Sam would get better. At least, hopefully. (Right up until, the pessimistic part of his brain reminded him, the wall came down. But he couldn't go around just waiting for that.)

"No!" Dean said quickly, when Bobby just looked at him. "No, nothing like that. We were just talking."

That smile was Sam's 'I can tell you're lying to my face and I'm hurt but I'm not saying anything because I think I deserve it' smile, and it was a new one. Sort of. "Oh," he said, "Okay. I'm going to go outside? Just for a walk."

Dean frowned, and half opened his mouth, but Sam kind of stiffened and added, "And I don't need a babysitter," before Dean could object.

"-fine," he said, though reluctantly. "Just don't fall asleep on the way home."

He watched Sam exit and looked back at Bobby, who shrugged. "I ain't helping," he said gruffly. "I wouldn't know how to in the first place. The rest of us don't speak Winchester, and Sam won't hardly look straight at me anyway."

Dean sat down heavily. "I speak Winchester," he said, feeling an absurd amount of self-pity, "But I don't know if I speak Sam anymore."

~.~

"You're not supposed to be here."

Little Sam didn't sound angry, though, just mildly surprised. Dean turned his back on the crib and tried to close his ears.

"Listen," he started to say, urgently, because he wasn't sure how long the dreamroot was going to give him. "This isn't okay. It doesn't fix anything and you can't just – keep beating yourself up with it."

Little Sam's face fell slightly. "It doesn't? What did I do wrong?"

"Everything," Dean said, and then realized how that had come out and said, "No, wait," but his eight year old little brother had already vanished, the crib was completely on fire, and his double was still standing there, impassive and uncaring.

"Fat lot of good you are," Dean snarled at him, and turned toward the door, opening it with the expectation that he could at least go back to the room in Bobby's house and sort out what he was going to say properly.

The door swung inward with a bang and Dean was in another room, this one full of mirrors. There were dead bodies on the floor and in every mirror Sam's face was reflected, but twisted, warped.

Dean had last seen that face beating him to death. He tried not to flinch and yelled instead. "Sammy?"

He turned in one slow revolution and there he was, eighteen this time, leggy and with his stupid hair. No smile, though, eyes wide as he stared at Dean with devastation in his gaze. "I'm sorry," he said, and Dean said, hoping Sam would get the hint, "For what?"

"For taking away your childhood," said Sam. "For running away. For almost killing you – what, how many times? For drinking demon blood, for trusting Ruby and not you, for nearly ending the world-"

"You didn't have to answer," Dean said, angry. "God! Let it go and fucking move on, man. It's over."

Sam didn't seem to hear him. "I'm sorry I left," he said, "When you said – I just didn't want to hear what you were going to say. But I remembered in time."

Dean blinked. "What I was going to say about what?"

"What I did wrong." Sam blinked, slowly, ponderously. "I was afraid maybe I forgot something."

Dean did swear, then. "I came in here to help you," he said, fiercely. "Not to make things worse. I just – you need to quit torturing yourself. It doesn't help."

Sam looked puzzled, tilting his head like a curious bird. "No," he agreed, "Of course it doesn't help."

"Then why-"

Sam worried at his lip. "If I forget I might make the same mistakes again."

"You're not going to do anything of the kind," Dean said firmly, "Because I'll be there to stop you."

"You were before," said Sam, softly, "And I just turned on you. I just want – things to be better."

Dean thought of eight-year-old Sam: _this is how I make everything better. _God. That was just Sam all over, always wanting to _fix _things, never accepting that sometimes things couldn't be fixed or didn't need to be fixed. "Okay," he said, slowly, not wanting to misspeak again. "So you want to know how to make things better? You forget about all the – burning cribs and everything else, and just – live. And dream about – white picket fences and whatever, and…what?" he asked abruptly, because Sam's face had shifted to horrified, and he took a step back.

"No," he said, "No no no, please," and finally Dean turned and found himself looking at Lucifer-in-Sam, emerging from one of the mirrors and bearing down on them both.

"Just a fucking second," Dean yelled, but Samifer opened his mouth and intoned, "We have forever, Sam, _forever._"

Dean tried to get in the way but the thing just went around him with ease, and Sam started screaming. The dream didn't vanish this time, and Sam didn't wake up, and Dean watched Lucifer in Sam's body cut Sam to ribbons, slice by slice by slice.

When he dared to open his eyes, Sam was eight again. "I'm sorry," said Sam, and the hoarseness in his voice was as though he'd been screaming for hours on end. Dean wondered why he wasn't awake yet. The dosage he'd taken had been larger, but not by that much.

"I'm sorry," the kid said again.

"You have no idea how tired I am of hearing you say that," Dean said wearily.

Sam didn't smile. "What else am I supposed to do? I can't fix anything, I know that. I can't bring people back to life. I can't erase the last four years of my life. I can't die and I'm not sure I remember how to live." He looked straight at Dean. "I can't even help you." He shrugged. "All I have are apologies."

Dean's metaphysical chest ached. "God, Sam," he breathed. "None of that's your problem. Just worry about fixing yourself, okay? That'll do for me, and the rest – just forget about it."

Sam laughed, sharply. "That's the worst part," he said. "I don't know how to fix me either."

Okay, Dean thought. He had at least a year of chick flick moments to make up for, right? That totally excused his reaching over and hugging his _little _little brother tightly. "Then I will," he said, fiercely. "I'll figure it out."

He could almost hear Sam frown. "But," he said, and Dean cut him off.

"No," he said. "I mean it. And you know what? Fixing you will go a long way toward fixing me, and just having you back does the rest. Promise."

Sam's head dropped onto his shoulder. "But what do I do?" he asked, plaintively.

"Just," Dean said, "Live. Just live, and keep going. You're not supposed to be dead. I know that." He could feel the dream starting to fade out, and opened his mouth, saying quickly, "You're not-"

He opened his eyes.

~.~

Sam was still asleep, but it seemed to be quiet, for now. Dean sat up, watching him and waiting for him to wake up. Maybe it would work. Probably, he thought, it wouldn't. But maybe, just once, they could get a little bit lucky.

Sam's eyes blinked open slowly and he rolled over, still bleary-eyed. He glanced at Dean, shook his head slightly, and pressed his face into his pillow.

"How'd you sleep?" Dean asked, carefully.

Sam frowned, slightly. "Okay. I think. Feel like I had some weird dreams."

Dean frowned a little more, grimaced, and said, carefully. "Sam, I meant what I said. About you not being a burden. I'm – glad to have you around."

Sam glanced at him, and then rolled his eyes. "Okay, Dean," he said, though, with a tiny smile, and this time it was his 'you're kind of weird but I'll take your word for it' smile. "Whatever you say."

It wasn't perfect. Far from it. But maybe it could be a start.

Dean could build on a start. "Bitch," he tried.

Sam raised an eyebrow at him and Dean's hopes fell slightly. He rolled out of bed and wandered toward the door, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Jerk," said a voice from behind him, and Dean felt himself smile.

Barely, but it was genuine, and just a smile.


End file.
